Earning Those Stripes
by Azrael-013
Summary: Fed up with being a loser, Ryan Masters is prepared to train, study, lie, cheat, kissup and more, all to fulfill his lifelong dream… to become a WWE referee! T13 for humor and language.
1. I Wanna Be a Zebra, Man

**Earning Those Stripes**

Genre: Humor/Parody  
Rating: T-13  
Summary: Fed up with being a loser, Ryan Masters is prepared to train, study, lie, cheat, kiss-up and more, all to fulfill his lifelong dream… to become a WWE referee! T-13 for humor and language.

* * *

Disclaimer: I own nothing related, pertaining to or within World Wrestling Entertainment, Funking Conservatory, Impact Pro Wrestling, and whatever other promotion, company or institution mentioned in this piece of fiction. However, PZBWTSPTR, Ryan Masters and his ballistic roommate are creations of my disturbed mind, and usage of them will require much groveling and heavy loan fees. Although I doubt anybody would want to…

It was when I was hanging clothes in our garage when the idea to make an original character a loser striving to be a WWE referee popped into my head. I don't know exactly where it came from, but a striped towel may have triggered something within my brain. Anyway, after some quick research on the subject and now fancying myself more knowledgeable on the matter than I was five hours ago, I started this.

I know most OCs may be less than well-received, but give Ryan a chance. Throughout the course of this fic I will happily humiliate, degrade, and put him in the most fucked-up situations that I can think of, all for your reading pleasure. And heck, I'm going to have fun doing it too. Enjoy.

Date Uploaded: 11 November 2005

**Chapter 01: I Wanna Be Zebra, Man**

'_Life is too short to be taken seriously.' – Observer Magazine_

**»»»**

"So what are the rules in a Duchess of Queensbury match?"

"Uh… wait, I think I remember this. There was some bullshit deal about timed rounds, right?"

"And…?"

"Er, no disqualifications…"

"And…?"

"Christ, I don't know. Wasn't that it?"

"No. A Duchess of Queensbury Rules Match is composed of two timed rounds, and there are no disqualifications and submissions. You missed the number of rounds, and submissions."

"Does it matter? I mean, that was a dumb match that was concocted by Regal back in Backlash 2001 where he just basically made up the rules as it went along, trying to screw Chris Jericho. It's not like there's going to be another one like it – one was bad enough."

"See, Ryan, this is what I've been saying; if you're going to remember useless pieces of information like that you might as well remember all of it. If not, then what's the use?"

Ryan Masters gave his roommate Dean a dry look. He knew it was bad idea to ask this guy to help quiz him on the different types of pro-wrestling matches. Despite the fact that Dean juggled a part-time job working at a telemarketing gig and studying through his course involving something wholly intimidating-sounding like quantum physics, he never seemed to take anything seriously. And he definitely wasn't trying to at that moment either.

"Jesus, Ryan, lighten up," Dean said, swiveling in the office chair he was in and throwing the papers he had been quizzing Ryan on to the desk. "It's refereeing, not brain surgery or rocket science."

"I know, and that's why it's going to be doubly embarrassing if I screw it up," Ryan snapped, grabbing the papers himself. "Now if you're not going to help me then get lost for a couple of hours. Go entertain yourself in your own room or something."

"Don't mind if I do, have to get some studying of my own done too," Dean said, standing up. "Don't burn yourself out," he snickered, toting a heavy textbook labeled 'Quantum Physics of Atoms, Solids, Nuclei and Particles' as he left.

Ryan groaned and flopped onto his bed. At twenty-three he was the product of your average, middle-class family, two semesters of neglected college, a gas station attendant who had miserably drawn the night shift, and was a closet fan of J-Pop. Oh, and he loved pro-wrestling. He wasn't an extraordinary guy, and for years he had had one and only one dream. To be there, under the bright lights, standing in the ring, hearing the people cheer.

He wanted to be a World Wrestling Entertainment referee.

Yep, a zebra, counter of pinfalls and wearer of the unmistakable stripes. When Dean had first heard that he laughed. "What? Are you sure you don't dream of being an actual wrestler yourself?"

Quite frankly Ryan never did see himself as a buffed-up, egotistic tough guy who supported tiny black spandex briefs in the ring, getting dropped on his head night after night by guys much bigger than him. As his last girlfriend had so tactfully said, he wasn't charming enough, durable enough and hadn't a cute enough butt for it. Since then he had been conscious of his rather flat posterior. And said ex had cheated on him with the junkie who hung around the gas station he worked at, resulting in a rather embarrassing break up.

But that's far from the point. The point was Ryan wanted to be a referee, not matter what kinds of ribbing he got from Dean and the rest of the people Dean happily shared Ryan's rather unusual goal to.

"You know, this would be a lot easier if you didn't get such a kick out of it," Ryan had once said after Dean had blurted it to a homeless guy on the street and the two of them had laughed heartily about it for the next ten minutes.

"And what kind of friend would I be if I made life any easier for you?" Dean said back in his familiar wit. "There is a way to make me eat my words, you know."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Actually become a WWE referee, fuckwit."

Curiously enough, that was the closest Dean had ever come to being helpful or supportive towards Ryan's career goal. Not exactly knowing where to start, Ryan turned to that marvelous, all-knowing entity that people so often relied on. He went to Google. And in the search bar he carefully typed, 'how to become a wwe referee'.

He learned a few things. One, is that he was a couple of years too late for the offer Careerbuilder-com once had, and that some other guy named Billy J from Impact Pro Wrestling had his exact same dream, the loser. Oh, wait. Anyway, whoever this guys was, he was considerably a few rungs up the ladder than Ryan was, and that in itself was pretty pathetic.

Deciding to get started himself, Ryan then went about looking for places where referee training was offered. Unfortunately, places like the Funking Conservatory and Moondog Manson's Pro-Wrestling School had taken one look at him and firmly stated that their places were full and that Ryan should try again next year or something. Discouraged after going through twelve different places with the same result all throughout, Ryan decided to go for one more. And if that didn't pan out, he would aim for that junior assistant manager something or another at the gas station.

"You're in luck, kid," the heavily smoking, heavyset woman with heavy mascara and a suspiciously heavy (read: baritone) voice said to him from behind the desk. "We just had a cancellation. Some other guy decided to forgo his spot and take up accounting at the state university like his parents always wanted."

"So I'm in?" Ryan asked, trying to grasp the fact.

"Pay the deposit of two hundred dollars upfront and you start tomorrow, cutie."

As a matter of fact Ryan had the money, and he happily forked it over. He also triumphantly announced his vital first step to Dean that evening. "Right," Dean said skeptically, "And the name of this place is…?"

"Wait," Ryan glanced at the receipt he had been given and turned red. "Uh, it's PZBWTSPTR - the Poobrain Zebra Bastard Wrestling Training School Place Thingy for Rejects."

Dean burst out laughing. "Oh that's a good one. Seriously, though, what's the name of the place?"

"That is the name of the place."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. And please don't make me repeat it, it's hard enough to say it with a straight face the first time around."

And that was what basically brought him to now. His first week wasn't so bad, even with one of his teacher being the heavyset 'woman' who stated that 'her' name was Lady Honeysuckle Sky and insisted on being called 'Miss Honey'. Sure it was scary the first two days, but by the third day he found that he had grown used to it.

Ryan stared up at the ceiling and listlessly fanned himself with his notes. In the room next to his, Dean apparently had decided to neglect his own studying and was now using his guitar to massacre the Bad Religion song playing on the stereo. Ryan sighed and then smacked himself rapidly a few times on the head with the papers. "Come on, gotta get this into my head…" he mumbled, rolling onto his stomach and going through it again.

"Right, so a Texas Bullrope match has two wrestlers on either end of a rope. If either of them frees themselves before the match is over, it's a disqualification. One way to win is through pinfall, the other is to touch all the turnbuckles…" Ryan let go with a yawn and within moments lowered his head and fell into a peaceful slumber on top of notes, leaving a trail of drool on the stipulations of the King of the Mountain match.

It was while he slept and dreamed of refereeing a Lingerie Pillow Fight Butt-Spanking match between Gail Kim and Angel Williams that two things happened. One was that in the next room Dean attempted to perform a difficult move with his guitar involving the windmill and jumping on the bed at the same time, lost his footing and crashed into his stereo, momentarily wiping himself out. And at the gas station Ryan's boss waited impatiently for him to show up for his shift, mumbling something about firing the bastard.

**» cont'd**

Not so Useless Tidbit: There is actually a Moondog Manson's Pro-Wrestling School that offers training for wannabe wrestlers, managers, valets and referees. I believe it's based in Canada.

Useless Tidbit: I got the Poobrain Zebra Bastard when I entered the name 'Ryan Masters' in the Insulting Name Generator at the Rumandmonkey-com site. I took it as a good sign that 'Zebra' was in there and used it.

Another Useless Tidbit: Billy J, the referee from Impact Pro Wrestling, does exist. I created Ryan as a joke. I never knew there was actually someone whose biggest dream ever was to referee for WWE. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity.


	2. I Need Some Quick Cash

I attempted some sort of plot development in chapter two and it kind of fell flat. Hopefully it laid down some foundation for future chapters, though. So here it is…

Date Uploaded: 13 November 2005

**Chapter 02: I Need Some Quick Cash**

'_Money doesn't talk, it swears.' – Bob Dylan_

**»»»**

Referee training at the Poobrain Zebra Bastard Wrestling Training School Place Thingy for Rejects, or PZBWTSPTR for short, went pretty much like one would expect. Okay, so granted not too many would actually know what to expect, and frankly Ryan hadn't either. He had visions of being taught how to slap the canvas for a long two count and how to reprimand someone three times your size not to use a closed fist.

He had two teachers who alternated seemingly depending on who wanted to teach that day. One was, as previously stated, Lady Honeysuckle Sky. 'Miss Honey', as she told her students to call her, stood a hair under six feet, weighed somewhere in the three-fifty pound mark and had a face a pit bull would have envied. Despite her suspiciously low voice and fearsome looks, she was soft-spoken, patient and addressed her students in the endearing, creepy manner that old maids had for little children.

The other instructor was a man named Bernie Gutierrez, a mouthy little bastard who could talk the ear off anybody. He spent most lessons trying to con his students out of more money by talking about sweet deals on cars, bootlegged stuff and 'surefire' horse racing bets. He wasn't exactly popular, but he owned half of the school and was a competent enough teacher despite his shortcomings. The fact that he seemed to be dating the infinitely bigger Miss Honey raised a lot of eyebrows as well.

And the latter was what Ryan came to class to, panting, yawning and half an hour late. Bernie looked up from where he was demonstrating a legal and illegal punch. "Masters! What's the big idea coming to class this late? Tell me it's some good excuse like getting wasted and going to bed with some skank who looks nothing like she did the night before!"

"No. I was studying," Ryan said lamely.

Bernie shook his head. "If you're going to screw up you might as well try to be interesting about it. Next time go with the skank story."

"Oh? And does Miss Honey enjoy that excuse as much as you do?" Gabby, the only female in their group, answered back cheekily.

"I'm going to let that insult slide on the sole reason that you've got boobs," Bernie said, showing that he wasn't above crassness and sexual harassment. "Now Masters, sit down and shut up."

If Ryan was more like Dean or Gabby even, he would have chosen this minute for a witty comeback. As such the only one that popped into his head was, "I know you are, but what am I?" and seeing as that didn't seem to fit within the theme of things he merely sat down and shut up.

As could be expected, referee training at the PZBWTSPTR wasn't the most popular of courses, and so the class was a relatively small one. Aside from Ryan there was the previously mentioned Gabby, who was actually taking refereeing along with managerial training, so if she bombed in the latter she still had the former to fall back on. There was also Lump, nicknamed as such by Bernie as he could indeed have been interchangeable with a lump of rusting metal in the brains department. And at that moment Lump, having been alerted to the fact that Gabby did have breasts by the ever gentlemanly Bernie, was staring at the poor girl's front, entranced and possibly drooling slightly. Gabby looked disgusted and inched away a little.

Last and unfortunately not the least was Wilmer. It was safe to say that Ryan didn't like Wilmer. This was because on the first day of their course the taller, better-looking, fitter and infinitely more charming Wilmer walked up to Ryan and said, "Consider yourself my rival from now on."

"Buh-what?" Ryan had asked rather stupidly, fiddling with his shoelace.

"I said you're my rival," Wilmer repeated, as if to a slow child. "Basically whatever you do, I'll damn well make sure I can do better."

"Huh? Why? I just met you today, for crying out loud!" Ryan exclaimed.

"Well it's pretty simple, really, Ryan," Wilmer said nonchalantly. "I don't thrive when I don't have anybody to compete against. Lumpy over there is, well, unsuitable competition and Gabby is a woman."

"Who can kick your ass," Gabby interjected from her place across the room.

"Point taken," Wilmer said with a grin. "But yet, I still wouldn't feel right going up against her." To Ryan, it seemed that he was only making excuses, considering Gabby was the most capable of the bunch. "That leaves only you."

And so far Wilmer had made good on his pronouncement. He could take a fall and sell it better than Ryan could. He missed tags and low blows better than Ryan could. He counted a fall better than Ryan could. He was even complemented by Miss Honey, saying that he looked better in stripes than Ryan could. And no matter how many times Ryan told the bastard that he was not competing with him, Wilmer still regarded him as his rival and nothing could change his mind.

"You know the basic rules," Bernie was saying in his too-loud voice. "Closed fists are illegal. Now and then you could probably let knuckles grazing the side of the head slide, especially if you hate the guy taking the blows. Whoever said refs shouldn't take favorites obviously took too many shots to the cranium."

"But refs SHOULDN'T take sides; it's the whole point of refereeing! To be an unbiased judge of matches!" Gabby pointed out.

"Right, sweetheart, let's see if you still believe that when some idiot wrestler gropes your ass and you have to call fair play on his steel cage match later on. You're going to find that resisting the temptation to hand his foe a steel chair is going to be very hard," Bernie told her.

Gabby rolled her eyes. "What an asshole," she murmured to Ryan.

The lesson went on mostly like this, with Bernie finishing on why the thumb to the eye is the most underrated move ever and why refs should always turn a blind eye to it, so to speak. Ryan's head drooped and shot back up again when a large hand smacked him on the shoulder. "I gotta tell you, kid, you show up late for my class and fall asleep during it to boot and I'm gonna hafta do to you what my fifth grade teacher did to me," Bernie told him gruffly.

"Oh? What was that?" Ryan asked, blinking sleep away from his eyes.

"Beat me 'til I was black and blue," he grinned. "Teacher was my mom and boy was she pissed."

"Listen, Bernie, I'm sorry," Ryan apologized, getting up and noticing that the other three were already in the process of filing out of the room, Gabby pointedly giving Lump a wide berth and Wilmer giving Ryan a smug little salute on his way out. "I've just been overworked what with the classes and my job and… roommate…" he had discovered Dean still unconscious by his busted stereo that morning.

"You're breaking my heart, kid," Bernie said dryly. He shoved Ryan back down to a sitting position. "Now I'm only gonna say this once, so listen up. I like you; despite the fact that you're about as interesting as a block of concrete, there's something about you. I think you have what it takes to go far in the referee career."

"Really?" Ryan hoped he didn't sound too hopeful.

Bernie nodded. "Right. That's why I've saved you this," he looked around conspiratorially for a while before pulling out a ticket from his jacket and showing it to him. "Know what this is?"

"Reservations for your movie date with Miss Honey later this evening?" Ryan hazarded a guess.

"Funny, kid… wait, how did you know I was going on Honey tonight?"

"Because these really are your reservations for the movie," Ryan pointed out.

Bernie looked at the ticket and shook his head, grumbling as he stuffed them back into his pocket and pulled out what he intended to show in the fist place. "Goddamnit. All right, here's the real deal," he flashed another ticket, this time noticeably smaller with muted colors. "It's to get you into the abandoned warehouse a block from here midnight tonight."

"Why would I want to enter some run down warehouse in the dead of night?"

"You will when you find out who's going to be there," Bernie said. "There's this freestyle/beatbox sort of thing that's going to happen, and only the ones with connections can get in. One of the competitors later on is gonna be Brian Hebner. You know the guy, right?"

"Uh, son of Earl, disgraced former WWE senior ref?"

"Disgraced or not, Earl Hebner still has tremendous pull in this business," Bernie said, seemingly annoyed that Ryan wasn't getting this through his thick head fast enough. "You get in with Brian and end up rubbing elbows with him and his father and they're invaluable connections. And you might even learn a thing or two from those guys."

"And you're offering this to me?" Ryan was skeptical.

"Of course! But for a price, you understand."

Ryan knew it. "How much?"

"Masters, you know you're a pal! Make it four hundred and the ticket's yours."

Ryan blanched. "FOUR HUNDRED? For a stupid ticket?"

"Hey, hey, nothin's stupid about a little strip of paper that could decide your future! Now are you willing or will I have to end up talking to Wilmer?"

"Wilmer? What's got to do with this?"

"You two are rivals, right? Now don't get me wrong, I hate the creep as much as you do – too chipper, too eager, really annoying – but I will go to him if you don't accept this deal. You'll want a leg up over him, right?" Bernie said.

Ryan was about to say that he had never fully committed himself to the blasted rivalry that Wilmer had shoved on him, but then he thought about it. Why not? If he could wave some mockingly in that arrogant dick's face then he would take it. That and this was a good step towards realizing his dream. "You know what? I'll take it."

"That's my boy!" Bernie beamed. Ryan was about to take the ticket when he grabbed it back. "Hey, pay up first. Cash, small bills preferably."

"Right, the money…" Ryan said, thinking quickly. "How about I meet you at the warehouse at eleven or something. I'll have the cash to pay you then."

"All right," Bernie said, although he looked disappointed. "I'm putting my trust in you, kid, so you better fuckin' show up."

As the two of them parted ways, Ryan quickly ran his options through his head. Maybe he could get a small advance in his salary at the gas station – he had been due for a raise anyway. Feeling in good spirits, he rushed off and was soon backing his busted old Toyota Corolla out of the parking lot and zooming off down the road.

**»»»**

"I've been WHAT?"

Brady, his boss, or former boss in this case, merely glared at him like he would have liked to feed the younger man to lions. "You heard me. You're FIRED. Sacked, canned, whatever you want to call it. You missed your shift last night, Masters. That's the third time in the past five months. I had to fill in for you, and when I got home after it I found out my wife walked out on me and took my dog with her! I lost two bitches in one night!"

"Uh… that sucks," Ryan could think of nothing else to say.

"You think that's bad? A crackwhore broke into my house an hour later, hit me over the head with a broken baseball bat, stole my mother's prized figurine of a man in swimming trunks, and when I came to and called the cops, they thought I was the one who was high and rummaged through my house looking for drugs!"

"Okay, that is bad…"

"And in the morning, instead of going to the doctor to have this lump on my head examined, I have to come over here and supervise that idiot new trainee who hasn't done a thing but snap gum and flirt with customers! And she's your replacement!"

"Yeah, about that, is firing me really necessary? I mean you're obviously stressed and all…"

"Forget it, Masters. I've made my decision and it's final. You stay fired."

Ryan groaned. "Fuck…" he said, as outside his ex-girlfriend passed by arm-in-arm with the junkie who hung around the gas station.

**» cont'd**

Useless Tidbit: There was nothing particularly interesting to comment about in this chapter.


	3. Dial 555Mama

I began writing this chapter right before Eddie died, so there is a misplaced attempt at a tribute at the first part spoken by Dean. I also realized that this is my first upload since his passing. I need to get cracking.

Date Uploaded: 26 January 2006

**Chapter 03: Dial 555-Mama**

'_Few misfortunes can befall a boy which bring worse consequences than to have a really affectionate mother.' - W. Somerset Maugham_

**»»»**

As far as Ryan could remember, he had only seen Dean cry twice. The first was when they were both around eleven or twelve, and Dean had been goofing off on top of the playground monkey bars. He had slipped and slammed crotch-first into the metal bar and ended up cringing in pain the ground, his face red and tears leaking from his eyes, although his pride had kept him from crying out loud. The second was when his girlfriend dumped him during his senior year in high school. It wasn't because of the fact that she had dumped him per se, but because she also piled all his porn (including his computer) into one place and took a sledgehammer to it. It had taken him years a lot of ingenuity that would have been best reserved for other things to collect all that crap.

But here he was now, bawling like a baby. Ryan stood at the end of the couch, looking in mild concern at his roommate. "Dean, did you get out of the apartment at all today?"

Dean's response was to give him the finger and not take his eyes off the TV screen. "I could care less."

"You know, it's really not healthy to be watching those taped RAW and Smackdown! tribute shows to Eddie Guerrero over and over again like that. It has been two weeks."

"Fuck you, jackass, this is Eddie Guerrero! He was an inspiration, a legend! I adored the shit out of this man! If I were a chick I'd call him my papi!" Dean was practically wailing at him at this point. "And you call yourself a fan! You're a dickhole, that's what!"

"I see you also forewent your daily dose of Valium."

At that three sofa cushions were flung at him in rapid succession, wherein Ryan somehow dodged the first two but was then creamed by the third, causing him to fall over and knock an rickety card table down along the way. "Take, that, bitch," Dean said to him sorely. "Wait a minute, what're you doing here anyway? I thought you were taking a double shift at the gas station."

"Technically I was," Ryan groaned, unearthing himself and crawling to an armchair. "But then I got fired."

"You probably deserved it."

"Yeah, I did," Ryan conceded.

They watched Chavo Guerrero take on JBL for a while, hitting Eddie's patented Three Amigos move in honor of his uncle. Then Ryan cleared his throat and spoke again. "I need a loan. A big one."

"You do realize that this isn't the best time to ask me this, right?" Dean growled at him, blowing into a tissue and then balling and tossing it over his shoulder.

"Yes, but frankly there's no other time for it," Ryan said. He then proceeded to tell Dean what Bernie had offered him. He watched as Dean's expression turned from curious to incredulous and then to just plain cynical.

"Ryan, this is Bernie, the same guy who sold us our microwave for a 'dirt cheap price', only he neglected to mention that the appliance is a piece of shit too," Dean said, pointing to where the microwave sat on a counter at their small kitchen. Said object emitted blue and orange flashes now and then, and currently seemed to be smoking too. "He's also been bugging us to pool in our life savings and 'invest' in some horse down at the track by the name of 'He's Not Slow, I Swear It!'"

"So his owner always seems to say."

"My point is you're an idiot for even thinking about trusting this guy. He'll probably end up giving you a seat in the back row, behind the column to a 'Nutcracker' ballet," Dean said, getting up to fix himself something to eat.

"So is that a 'no' on the loan?" Ryan asked, turning around in his seat to look at him.

Dean, unwrapping a plate of leftovers from the fridge, groaned and shook his head, popping the food into the microwave. He keyed in the time and turned his back, signaling that the discussion was over. Ten seconds later a small explosion emitted from inside the electric appliance, causing both boys to take cover. The door to the microwave popped open and the leftovers were showcased in a smoking heap.

Ryan and Dean both cautiously lifted their heads to examine the damage.

"Yes, Ryan, I would say that's a definite 'no' on the loan," Dean said finally.

**»»»**

After Dean's initial rejection, Ryan decided to try a few others who might have been able to loan him the money. As a result he was subsequently turned down by Gabby, his still-enraged former boss, his ex-girlfriend, the junkie who now slept with his ex-girlfriend, the man at the Chinese eatery down the street who took his orders, his former high school vice-principal who detested him anyway and a gay guy named Fitzy who once felt him up during a party.

Ryan sighed. It had come down to this. He now had to ring up the person who came dead last on his list.

The phone was picked up on the third ring and a pleasant voice answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, mom," Ryan greeted.

"Ryan!" his mother immediately cried, her warm tone now rising to the soprano-like shriek that he was so familiar with. "It's been three months since you last called! I was beginning to think that you were doing drugs, or dead, or had run away to Calgary!"

Ryan sighed. Constance Masters was an overprotective worrywart who constantly fretted over her three grown children. Ryan and his older brother Nolan had moved out years ago, but their third sibling, Patrick, still a minor and resigned to sticking around the parents, often bitched loudly about having to endure their mother all by himself. Needless to say Ryan didn't envy him one bit, and he didn't feel sorry for him either.

"Mom, I'm fine," he said, employing the sibling's tried and trusted method of speaking calmly and elongating syllables for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. It usually served as a good way to cut into their mother's tirade and placate her long enough to get a word in.

Fortunately it worked. "Is that so? Any chance of you telling me what you've been up to?"

"Mom, I do tell you what I'm up to. I send you emails regularly." It was a blatant lie, as the last one he had forwarded was a half-assed chain letter about two months back. Of course his mother was hardly computer-savvy, and like much of her shortcomings she chose to ignore it. "You do check your mail now, don't you?"

"When I get around to it," came the defensive answer, obviously lying.

Ryan sighed, but he had succeeded in finding an opening. "Listen, mom, I called to see how you were doing… and to ask for a little favor."

"How much do you want, Ryan?"

He blinked and then had the decency to turn red. Constance was more than aware in that the last four times Ryan had called that year, two was to ask for money. "Uh, well, four hundred dollars, in fact."

"Four hundred? What for? And please don't tell me it's because you've drained your bank account on video games again. The last time you did that, you didn't even have five dollars for gas money! Speaking of which, don't you work at the gas station?"

"Uh, right, I do," Ryan said, too much in a hurry to explain to his mother how he had gotten canned. "But I've just used most of my recent salary to pay for the rent and my half of the bills and groceries. I just need four hundred to tide me over until next fortnight. That's all, mom, I promise, and I'll pay you back by then." Another blatant lie, and this time both of them knew it.

Constance sighed. After a pause she relented. "All right, I'll have the money transferred to your bank account tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow? Crap. Ryan thought quickly. "Uh, I really wanted to have it by tonight, mom."

"Well what do you expect me to do? The banks are closed by now."

"Right, right… can you have Patrick come over then? He can bunk here for the night too; he's been wanting to get out of the house for sometime now." That was mostly true, as Patrick begged his brothers on every opportunity to spend a few days over with them.

Constance gave another sigh. Sooner or later she always caved in to her sons. "All right, all right. I'll send Patrick over by bus; he should be there in an hour or so."

"Thanks mom, you're the best. I love you."

And those three words always melted her. "I know I know. You better hope your father doesn't find out about this."

Ryan smiled in relief as he put down the phone. Well, it had taken him a lot of pains, but now he was secured for that beatbox competition down the warehouse tonight. Now he could sit back and relax for a couple of hours.

"You asked your MOM? Jesus Christ, you're such a douchebag," Dean said, passing by and stuffing potato chips in his mouth.

"Do you get off listening to my phone calls?" Ryan demanded.

"Sometimes. Hey, your mom is hot."

"You're sick."

"Whatever. So, what time are we leaving?" Dean asked, plopping down onto the couch.

"We? I don't believe I asked you to come with me."

"We're friends, the invitation is always implied. Besides, would I miss the chance to see what other screw-ups you attempt? I don't think so!" he laughed.

"Tough luck. You're going to stay and baby-sit Patrick," Ryan said, getting up and moving towards his room.

"Oh, so it's going to be like that now?" Dean said, looking at him.

"Yeah," Ryan said, going into his room and shutting the door behind him.

Dean turned back to the TV set and stuffed another handful of chips into his mouth. "That's what he thinks."

**»»»**

Useless (Or Not So Useless) Tidbit: I happily call Eddie Guerrero my papi. This is dedicated to you, man, wherever you are.


End file.
